


Honeymoon in Spain

by shepromisestheearth



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Other, kind of crack?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shepromisestheearth/pseuds/shepromisestheearth
Summary: It’s Paul McCartney’s 21st birthday, and things are going very well- until, that is, Bob Wooler decides to bring up the vacation John Lennon had taken with Brian Epstein.





	Honeymoon in Spain

Paul McCartney’s 21st Birthday Party  
June 18, 1963  
Dinas Lane, Huyton, Liverpool- Aunt Jin’s House.  
-  
John didn’t want to talk about what happened in Spain. John didn’t even want to think about Spain, or even about what his old friend from art school, Ian Sharp, had said all those months ago. 

He wanted to be there for Paul. His best mate, who had been jovially laughing with a twinkle in his hazel eyes only minutes before. A bottle of beer pressed to his lips, some sort from Switzerland or Sweden or another s country that John couldn’t care less about. His girl, Jane, and Cynthia were close talking as the Fourmost played Hello Little Girl. 

“How was the honeymoon in Spain, Johnny? Was Epstein good as a bird?” 

Bob Wooler sat opposite to him- Paul was at the head of the table and John sat at his right. Brian had excused himself an hour or so before, lighting a cigarette as he waved the boys farewell and got a taxi. He had only popped in briefly, but preferred not to drink that night; Brian had given Paul a quick hug as Paul pleaded with him to stay a bit longer. Brian shook his head with a small smile and flicked his eyes over to John, nodding in his direction.

Wooler must’ve fuckin’ seen it, John thought, gritting his teeth. 

“Dunno what yer talkin’ ‘bout,” John said and attempted a chuckle, as he took a swig of his own drink. His eyes drifted to where Cynthia laughed at the edge of the lawn, smoothing her skirt down. 

George’s eyes flashed dangerously in Wooler’s direction and then turned them onto John- Ringo was dancing with some bird he had hit up conversation with, and was hiccuping maniacally. 

“I heard down the grapevine that you and Eppy were visitin’ places otha than the beaches there.” Bob laughed, slamming down the beer bottle he had been drinking. 

“‘Ey, you leave John and Brian ‘lone,” Paul slurred, his doe-eyes drooping with drunkenness, “It ‘in’t funny, Bob.”

Paul’s sloppy defense wasn’t enough to deter him, and Wooler broke the camel’s back, “Jules gonna have a lil’ step-siblin’?”

John could’ve sworn his blood boiled, spluttering in his veins with his anger. Everything was even more wobbly than usual. He tried to tug up his arm and curled his fingers into a fist. He looked down to find George’s hand clenched around his wrist, pleading him silently. 

John. It’s Paul’s birthday. 

John did not heed his warning. He was too drunk to. 

Powered by anger and adrenaline, John leaped across the table and crashed a fist into Wooler’s cheekbone. He felt glass shatter beneath his ribs as he wiggled across the table, sputtering curses that he couldn’t even understand himself through the thickness of his accent. His slammed his fist into Wooler’s face, over and over and over again. 

“Oy!” Paul shouted, but John could hardly hear him through the pounding of blood and anger and fear in his ear drums. 

George attempted to grab at his pants leg and pull John back, but only succeeded in pulling off a shoe as John fell onto the ground atop Wooler.

“Yer a fuckin’ one to talk!” John roared, wobbly as he attempted to stand. Wooler had fallen back in his chair and hit his head, feeling along his jaw. 

John began to kick him in anger, kick him in his ribs and he went down punching until Wooler’s nose was nothing more than a bloody pulp. 

“J-John,” he heard Paul pleading, “C’mon, please now-,”

John looked up to look at Paul, and Wooler uppercut him before Ringo rushed over and assisted George in pulling the man off of the other. Paul leaned back on his hand, resting on the table. 

“What the hell are ye doin’?” Ringo asked, grabbing John by his shoulders. John finally came to; it felt like he had been moving by a force other than his own. Everyone in the bar stood staring at him, many of the birds gawking in fear. George had rushed to Wooler’s side.

“I- God, what the hell did I do?” John stared at Wooler’s swollen face. He was coughing, and a stream of blood ran down his chin. 

“Ye nearly beat him to death!” Paul’s eyes looked to John with immense fear. John’s heart sank in his chest. 

“Paul, I didn’t mean t’-,”

“Paul’s right.” George said grimly, “I’ll ring the doc, take him to the hospita’,”

John stared open-mouthed as George rushed into the house.

“We ought to go. I’ll get us a cabbie, John. Come with me.” Ringo said, grabbing his arm roughly in an attempt to lead him away from Wooler. He was still fuming. 

“Wa’ ‘bou Macca?” John pointed to Paul, who was now being checked over by Jane. She had coming running over after John had been pulled off of Wooler. 

Ringo looked at John pointedly, “I dunno, maybe the chap will be safa withou’ you,” 

“Ya damn well know I’d never hurt P-,” John began to snarl, but was interrupted by Macca himself.

Paul rubbed his upper arms, now slumped in his chair. He looked sullen, sniffing as he stared at his S-country beer. Jane caressed his shoulders, fussing over him. “Ye fellas go on. Jane, love, you’ll take m’ home, won’tcha?” 

“Of course, dear,” Jane said, pressing a kiss to Paul’s head. He patted her hand, head bobbing until it rested on her chest. 

John muttered a curse under his breath as he watched George come back from the house, accompanied by none other than Cynthia Lennon. She looked tired, and John didn’t take much regard to how George protectively put his hand at the small of her back. 

“John-,” Cynthia began softly, as soon as she was in earshot of her husband.

“Don’t fookin’ try it, Cynth!” John snapped, “tonight ‘in’t the night!”

“John, shut your goddamn mouth,” George said, “You’ve done plenty, thank ye. Take this nice bird home now, yeah?”

John pressed his lips into a fine line, “Yeah, alright. Hope you have an alright night, mate. You too, Hazza, Rings.” 

“G’night, John.” Paul sighed exhaustedly, rubbing his face with his hands, “There’s the docs now.” 

“Come on, John, we really should go.” Cynthia said, her pale hand wrapping his.  
-

The car ride was mostly silent; Cynthia drove, drumming her fingers on the wheel softly. 

“I’m sure Mimi will be pleased to hear that we’re home.” Cynthia said softly, “Maybe you and Julien could watch The Sooty Show together.”

“I’m not watching children’s programmin’,” John slurred.

“I know, John, but he’d-,” Cynthia let out a quiet sigh, “Nevermind. It’ll be bedtime by the time we get home, anyhow.”

John stared out of the window, the haphazard brick buildings of Liverpool whizzing past in the fading sunlight. He kneaded his forehead, “I could tuck him in, if you wanted.”

“Of course.” Cynthia smiled a little, and John swallowed. He felt bad, at least at how he had treated her; he realized she was wearing lipstick, and had even painted her nails. He hadn’t taken into account how pretty she looked that night. 

“I’m sorry, Cynth.” John said, “I shouldn’t ‘ve yelled at ye.”

“‘S alright, John.” Cynthia said quietly, pulling into the drive of the home they barely shared. The light from the living room was on.

“No, love, I’ve been awful-,” John said, as Cynthia parked their car, “Lemme give ye a hug around the neck-,” 

John Lennon wrapped his arms around the wife he didn’t deserve, and she began to cry as she buried her head in his neck. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” her voice trailed, “I wish you wouldn’t hurt people, John. You don’t have to be like that, you know.”

“I did, this time!” John said in defense, pulling away from the hug. Cynthia’s eyeliner was smudged. 

“What did Bob even say to you? I thought the two of you were friends,” Cynthia said, twisting her hands. 

“He thought Eppy and I’s trip was a queer tirade.” John gritted his teeth as he forced the door open, “Called it our honeymoon, could you believe it?”

“That doesn’t warrant you nearly killing him, John.” Cynthia said, opening her own door. 

“He deserves it, anyhow.”

“John!”

John snickered, looping around the car to meet her. He slipped his hand into hers, “Ye have fun?”

“I suppose. Jane and I got off smashingly.” Cynthia said, as John produced the house keys from his pocket. 

“Figured ye would, Paul says she’s very posh.”

“I figure the lads only dating her because she’s famous, in’t he?”

“I don’t think it’s love, but what do I know.” John mumbled, finally forcing the door open, “Mimi, we’re home!” 

His aunt was in the rocking chair, cradling Julian in her lap. She stood, almost immediately, from watching the telly. Only three months old, their son nestled himself in Mimi’s bosom but looked at John with his same brown eyes; he was a spitting image of John, with a tuft of auburn hair atop his small head. 

“‘Allo, John,” Mimi said, “You two are back home so early? Thought ye were staying out til two, at least.” 

“Plans changed.” Cynthia said simply, striding across the living room with arms outreached to her baby. She accepted him, and Mimi didn’t ask of her any questions. She only nodded, taking a glance towards John. 

A bit of shame seared his stomach- did she know what he had done, based on the simple words of his wife? She had known him as a troubled youth, better than anyone, and he had never felt guilt then. But maybe he expected more of himself now- he was rising to fame with his lads beside him, not to mention being a father and husband. 

He hadn’t thought about that in Spain or when he bashed Wooler’s face in. 

“G’night, Mimi.” He managed, “You get home safe, won’t ye, love?”

“I’ll try.” Mimi said, moving past Cynthia and began to leave, “G’night, John.” 

“Goodnight, Mimi, thank you again!” Cynthia said, bouncing Julian a little, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Alright, dear.” Mimi gathered her purse and pulled on her light cardigan. She gave a slight wave of her hand and then opened the door and left. 

“I should put Julian down, for bed.” Cynthia said quietly, “Then I’m going myself.”

“‘Course, Cynth. I’ll be right behind ye.” John huffed, sitting down on the couch heavily. He rubbed his eyes of the sleep already gathering in them. 

His wife disappeared into the hallway, her footsteps still clicking because of her small, dainty heels; she had not yet slipped out of them, and he knew when she reached the carpet of Julian’s bedroom when he could no longer hear her. 

John took a glance towards the telephone, then grabbed it and pulled it into his lap. The thing spun as he inserted his finger into the moving slot, pressed every which way until it formed Brian Epstein’s phone number. 

He pressed the phone to his ear, and let it ring.

**Author's Note:**

> hey-o, I tried to make this as accurate as possible, but I didn’t edit much. Let me know if there’s any errors and I will fix them!


End file.
